Decidedly Odd
by witchfire24
Summary: A virginal Molly and a laid-up Sherlock, alone in the lab at St. Bart's. Reisenbach Falls. Sherlolly, Sheriarity. Warning: Female-on-male and slash non-con
1. Molly the Virgin

**My first-ever fanfic, and my first time writing in third person since seventh-grade English.**

**Note: Non-consensual sex is not okay. Please don't read if you find work like this offensive, as you well should! For all of you like me, who like skipping to the smut, you'll find it mostly in Chapters 3 and 4. Ah, the wonders of fanfic.**

**Again, to reiterate: WHAT HAPPENS IN THIS FIC IS NOT OKAY IN ANY SENSE OF THE WORD**

**Update: If you enjoyed this then I encourage you to subscribe even though it's finished (for now) because I uploaded it all at once (being a newbie) and it didn't have time to gather followers, which in turns deters people from reading it.**

* * *

Molly Hooper was a virgin.

It wasn't from lack of interest. Far from it. In fact, sex was never far from her mind.

Looking at her, quiet and mousy in her white lab coat, you would never believe the images her brain teamed with: fat glistening cocks thrusting deep into her pussy, slick hard cocks ramming her from behind, thick hot penises pulsing down her throat…

It wasn't from lack of opportunity, either. She wasn't very pretty, but she wasn't bad-looking, either. There had been plenty of nice-looking men she could have slept with had she wanted.

Yet Molly Hooper remained a virgin.

_A virgin who's not getting any younger_, she reminded herself gloomily as she sliced into a corpse. It was a young man's corpse. A mere boy, really.

Part of the reason was the fact that she expected too much from a man, and she knew it. No man's fingers could surpass her vibrator collection, no man's penis could possibly be longer or thicker or harder than her dildos. Or last longer, for that matter. No man could last as long as one of her dildos, and needed more than five minutes of penetration to satisfy herself. And back to the size issue: it wasn't like you could ask your date to pull it out over dinner, whip out your tape measure, see if you _really_ wanted to take him home!

Take this corpse, for example. Nice face, nice abs, but his cock! Even doing the math, doubling it to estimate how it would be when it was erect—it was nothing at all like the king of her dildo collection.

She had named the dildo Oscar, after the American hot dog company.

And, no matter what men said about the motion of the ocean, Molly believed strongly in boat size. When most men were packing sailboats, Molly wanted a battleship.

And she had cut up enough male corpses to know that when it came to cocks, there was no matching Oscar. Or even Tony, Marcus, or Danny. And men had no natural arc like her slim silver darling Steve, perfectly curved to hit that lovely sweet spot every time.

Well, there was that one corpse, but he had a genital deformity. Ugh. That one had caused her to skip lunch and question the hospital's policy of examining the entire body during an autopsy.

_I wonder what a man would say if I pulled out my vibrator in middle of sex,_ she thought to herself as she pulled off her bloodstained gloves and tossed them in the trash. _There's no way even oral sex can be that good. There's only so much manual stimulation can do, right?_

And to lie there, legs open, unsated, while he satisfied himself—she refused to allow herself to be used like that, like a toy for someone else's pleasure, because no matter what the man's best intentions were or how much he wanted to please her, she knew she would feel used.

There was also the problem that she was simply not very sexually attracted to men. Not real men, anyway. Aragorn, yes. Thranduil, yes. (The Lord of the Rings weren't her usual kind of movies, but she had been glad she had gone). And Johnny Depp—check there, but only as Sweeney Todd or Jack Sparrow…(those were date movies. Upon reflection, Jim's renting _Sweeney Todd_ should have been a red flag). She wasn't even attracted to the actors, but to the characters they played.

And then, of course, there was Sherlock Holmes.

There was a cool inhumanity about Sherlock, a certain detachment, an unreality, that added him to the roster of beautiful men who only existed in people's collective imaginations, and could therefore be made to do and be anything she wished.

There was no emotional messiness to fear with Sherlock. She was not sure he was capable of even sexual messiness, and that added fuel to her sex fantasies of him, a lot like those girls who would drool over untouchable gay men.

_Not_, she thought to herself as she scrubbed her hands,_ that good gay porn is not hot._

Perhaps that untouchable gayness had been what subconsciously attracted her to Jim when he was pretending to be gay.

_No, you're not afraid of sex. You're afraid of _bad_ sex._

She thought for a moment about Jim leaning on over the lab's sink, arms hooked over the rim for support, being taken from behind by Sherlock—  
The obscene slap of balls and skin—

Sherlock, with Jim's cock shoved deep down his long beautiful throat—

She smacked her forehead to jar the images out of her brain. She had been trying to tone down her sexual fantasies lately, to keep them within the realm of possibility. No more spitroasting or exhibitionism. All that did was heat a furnace that could never possibly bake anything.

_And he's not "Jim," he's MORIARITY, a MURDERER_, she reminded herself. _He killed over a dozen people and blew up an old woman, for heaven's sake!_

In that case, Moriarity being held down and raped by an entire prison block, Moriarity spitroasted on his hands and knees—

_No, none of that! Think of nice, ordinary vanilla sex. Red silk sheets, candles, rose petals…_

Nice, ordinary, boring vanilla sex.

She was straitening up the lab, waiting for her next corpse or tissue sample, when Sherlock entered, coat swishing out like a superhero's cape, gray-blue eyes even sharper and more intense than usual.

She could tell Moriarity was bothering him too simply by the look on his face.

Though somehow she didn't think it was exactly the same kind of bothering.

_Too bad._


	2. Decidedly Odd

**Summary**:

Sherlock arrives in a rather...embarrassing condition. Good thing he's not conscious.

* * *

Molly spent the rest of the day in a fever of anxiety.

What if something went wrong?

_Nothing can go wrong. Sherlock is too smart for that. He has it all worked out. He told you so, and he's always right. There's nothing Moriarity can possibly surprise him with!_

But she could barely focus on her pathology report. Three times she attempted to fill it out, giving up finally when she wrote in "Fabian Death" instead of "Fabian Deaton" under the section for patient's name.

And then suddenly there was shrieking from outside, and cries.

She ran to the window. There as a large crowd gathered below. Nurses from the hospital were lifting a body onto a stretcher—

A familiar body with curly brown hair and a long dark coat—

She slid down the wall to the floor.

Sherlock had asked for a serum to simulate death, but that wouldn't work if he has actually dead.

So he _hadn't_ seen every eventuality. Certainly not one where fell from the hospital roof and splattered against the pavement…

She had been sitting like that for a long time, mind numb, when the door opened and a gurney was wheeled in.

She scrambled to her feet and was about to speak when she saw it wasn't an orderly pushing the gurney, but a tall thin man with a pointy nose and an umbrella hooked over his arm. He reminded her of a posh stork who didn't like to get wet.

There was a sheet draped over the gurney, but she knew exactly what was beneath the sheet.

"Dr. Hooper?" the posh stork said.

She was too upset to reply. Instead she pulled back the sheet.

Sherlock lay there, pale and cold and beautiful, like a beautiful marble statue—

The man had shut the door behind him.

"Dr. Hooper, I understand that my brother came to see you before his death," he said.

"There's a bandage on his head!" Molly blurted. "Why is there a bloody bandage—"

The man raised his hand, silencing her as effectively as if he had placed it over her mouth. He was obviously a man used to having people obey.

"Dr. Hooper, please," he said, his soft voice politely condescending. "This is…a delicate matter."

Molly clutched at a counter or support. "He's alive! Unless—did he died _after_ he was tended—"

The man smiled. It was more patronizing than cheerful, and didn't quite reach his eyes. At least Sherlock had been capable of a genuine smile!

"Yes, Dr. Hooper. Your powers of observation have not failed you," he said. "Sherlock did indeed survive the fall—as we eventually realized. Your serum worked quite effectively to hide all signs of life."

Molly checked Sherlock's pulse with shaking hands. It was so slow and faint as to be almost nonexistent.

"He needs a safe place to be until things can be arranged," said the man. _Mycroft Holmes_, she mentally filled in as her thoughts calmed down. _Sherlock's awful brother._ She had heard mention of him a few times, never very complementarily. "As he needs medical attention, and cannot be moved from this facility as of yet, I naturally thought of you."

"But—"

"He will be kept in the lab's on-call room, and I have arranged for you to have both the day and night shift here. It should be not be more than three nights. We have made arrangements to have your cat looked after."

"I—"

"Very good, then." He opened the door. Two nurses she was certain did not work at the hospital wheeled in a heart monitor and IV, taking Sherlock with them as they disappeared into the on-call room.

Mycroft was holding a plastic bag of medicine. "This one goes in his morphine drip—not too much morphine, please—and this one gets injected twice a day. You have syringes, I believe."

"Yes, but—"

He fingered the medicine bottle. "This is a…unique drug. I have been informed that being used in conjunction with your serum might soon yield some…odd results."

"Odd?" Molly squeaked. Mycroft made her feel even smaller than Sherlock used in, back in the early days before he met John and became somewhat socialized.

"You shall see," he said. "It is not dangerous, merely…" He gave her that patronizing smile again and handed her the bag of medicine. "Do not be alarmed."

"Odd?" she repeated.

"Decidedly odd."

The two nurses left the on-call room, nodded at Mycroft, and left.

Mycroft ducked his head at Molly. She got the feeling he would have tipped his hat, had he been wearing one.

"Nobody is to know he lives," he said. "Not John Watson, not Mrs. Hudson, not anybody."

"But why?"

"He will explain things himself, when he is stronger. I know I can trust your discretion, Dr. Hooper." His eyes bored holes in her. "I can rely on your discretion, can I not?"

She nodded.

"Good."

He ducked his head again, that smackable smile on his thin lips again, and left.

As soon as the door closed behind him Molly rushed into the on-call room, and froze.

Sherlock lay on one of the two beds, still draped in the white sheet. An IV snaked under the sheet, and his face was paler and more beautiful than ever, all high cheekbones and dark curls.

And, in the middle of the sheet, rising like a proud tent pole, was Sherlock's massive erection.


	3. Decidedly Delicious

**Summary**:

Good thing Molly has leftover chocolates.

* * *

Molly had two hours left to her shift until she was allowed to go on-call, but she couldn't concentrate now that she knew Sherlock was alive than she could that afternoon. And now she had the added distraction of a gently throbbing groin.

_"Odd" is not quite the word I would have used_, she thought to herself as she sewed up a corpse. It hadn't even been an interesting distraction—just another morbidly obese woman dead at sixty from heart disease coupled with poorly managed diabetes. _More like—like—_

_Exciting?_

She shuddered at the effort it took to keep from rushing into the on-call room and throwing back that sheet and—

_I really _should_ throw back that sheet, and cover him with a nice blanket. There might be a chill in there. _

_Right?_

She pushed the woman's body into the freezer and took off her gloves.

Her day shift ended at eight o'clock. Five more minutes now.

She washed her hands.

Three more minutes now.

She shook her hair loose and smoothed back into a neat ponytail.

Two minutes—

And then an emergency autopsy was needed. A bit more interesting, this one—possible poisoning—but all she could think of was that tented sheet, of the cold marble body that lay under it—

It was past eleven o'clock when she finished the lab report. But instead of rushing back to the on-call room, she found herself just sitting at her desk.

What if it _wasn't_ anything special?

Did she really want to risk ruining her sex fantasies, just for the sake of satisfying her curiosity? They were such very good sex fantasies!

Molly steeled herself and pushed open the door of the on-call room. She would just give him his sedative and slip out to the twenty-four hour drugstore on the corner to buy herself a few necessities for the next few days, as she hadn't been on-call for months and didn't have her overnight bag with her, and then she would get some rest.

She adjusted Sherlock's drip, avoiding looking down at him.

She changed the bandage on his forehead, gently cleaning the wound where his head had cracked into the hard sidewalk. It was a miracle he had survived.

_Yes, a miracle,_ Molly thought, and bent down and kissed him chastely on the forehead.

His skin was smooth and cold, but a tingle shot up from her groin, and her heart began to pound.

_No. This is wrong—_

And then Sherlock stirred slightly.

"Molly?" he said. His voice was even deeper than usual, as if he had the flu—a sexy flu—and a lightning-bolt-sized shock of lust raced through her and she leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth.

"Don't—"

She stroked his cheek. "It's all right, Sherlock," she said. "You're safe now. Go to sleep." She kissed him again, deeply this time, her lips tingling at his touch. It had been such a long time since she'd kissed anyone—

And then, without her deciding to do it, her hand reached out all by itself and yanked the sheet off of Sherlock.

All he wore underneath was a pair of blue hospital pajama bottoms, with the fly yawning open.

And sticking up through the fly, white in the pale light from the window, was a long thick, hard, gleaming cock.

Longer than Oscar. Thicker than Oscar. A bold, proud, glorious erection—

Molly moaned aloud at the sight, and the next thing she knew she was bending down kissing it.

She glanced up quickly at Sherlock, to make sure he hadn't seen what she did, but his eyes were closed.

Molly constantly fantasized about oral sex, but she had always been certain she would never actually enjoy it in real life—there was something so demeaning about it, to be giving someone such pleasure in such a way without getting anything out of it—

Or so said the intelligent half of her, the half that had graduated from medical school with honors. Her other half, the half that hoarded sex toys like they were lined with mithril, desperately wanted to throw herself upon a nice fat dick and suck, suck, suck it dry. She sucked on dildos sometimes, as she furiously worked the vibrator and fingered her nipples, and although she always felt guilty afterward, she kept right on doing it.

Molly reached out and stroked the side of Sherlock's cock. It was so beautiful, so perfectly formed, not dark and red angry looking but cold and white like it had been carved from marble by Michelangelo.

_Or, you know, like a big popsicle._

She covered Sherlock with a blanket and went to the kitchen off the on-call room to splash her hot face with cold water.

Tea. Perhaps some nice chamomile tea would calm her down.

She was rummaging about in the cabinet for the tea she thought she remembered leaving there when she found the box of chocolates.

One of Jim's gifts. She had entirely forgotten about it.

_Enjoyed watching Glee with you last night,_ the attached note read. _Meet me for coffee at 2? xxxooo, Jim._

Molly crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash, then opened the box. It was shortly after she had received the chocolates that she had discovered who—_what_—Jim really was, so most of the chocolates were uneaten.

She plucked one from the box and ate it, the silky chocolate melting on her fingers.

She started to lick it off, then stopped.

_Not a popsicle, a fudgsicle._

_A chocolate-covered cocksicle._

She didn't remember much of what happened right after that. There was a saucepan involved, and she vaguely remembered melting the chocolates in it. And she tested the melted chocolate to make sure it wasn't too hot—that she knew. She remembered sponge-bathing Sherlock's penis, and locking the door to the room.

But the exactly details of how she went from holding a box of the finest Belgian chocolates in the kitchen to smearing melted chocolate on Sherlock's cock would forever be a mystery to her.

She stripped off her lab coat and tossed it on the other bed, kicked off her shoes, and crawled up on the bed so that she was straddling Sherlock's legs. Her heart was pounding so hard she was surprised the bed wasn't shaking with each beat. She could feel every throb of her heart down in her pussy, and she was already so wet she knew she'd have to hand-wash her panties in the sink afterward.

She touched the tip of Sherlock's cock with her tongue, moaning slightly at how wrong this all was.

But Sherlock was unconscious. No harm done, right?

She knew that pathetically flimsy rationale would shatter like sugar glass had she been the one lying there on the bed with Sherlock crouching over her, but she allowed her qualms to burn in the fire of her lust as she ran her tongue over his tip. After thousands of years of men harming women, she was allowed to get a little of her gender's own back!

_Over-thinking things as usual. Leave it to me to turn this into some kind of statement about gender politics! For one in your life just act on instinct, just grab what you _really_ want—_

And what she wanted was him, and very, very badly.

Sherlock stirred, and she pulled away.

After a moment she leaned back down, starting at the base this time, sucking hard on the side like it really was a popsicle.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Stop," he whispered in that glorious deep voice of his. "Molly, stop—"

"Hush. You'll like it." _And you won't remember it, so I'm not humiliating myself._

Molly turned up the morphine and bent down to resume sucking and licking at the base of cock, running her tongue up the side and lapping the chocolate off his nice smooth shaft.

_You are sucking on Sherlock Holmes' cock,_ she thought to herself, and she mmmed at the her having put it into actual words and reached down into her panties. _Sherlock Holmes' obscenely huge erection, his hard-on, his beautiful, glorious, enormous penis—_

Molly pressed her fingers up between the slippery folds of her vagina, wetting them, then gently fingered the folds until her throbbing groin felt like it was going to explode. Then she slid them up to her clit, drawing circles around the wonderful little nub with her slick wet fingers.

She gently scraped her teeth over the chocolate-covered cock, licking and sucking on the sides as she used her free hand to unbutton her blouse and slip her hand inside. She pulled her bra up and cradled her right breast.

Ah, that was the stuff. Molly could rarely cum without her nipples being stimulated for at least some of the session.

She lifted her chocolate-smeared mouth from Sherlock's delicious cock long enough to suck on her fingers, then returned to it as her saliva-covered fingers ran over her nipple, closing her eyes at the ripples of pleasure touching her nipples caused and moving her fingers to touch her actual clit now.

She could feel pressure building inside her now, quicker than she had ever managed to approach orgasm without a vibrator, certainly quicker than she had been able to without porn—or smut, rather. Somehow "smut" sounded less common and filthy than "porn."

She slowed down her strokes on her clit but continued rubbing her sensitive nipples, hard, moaning into Sherlock's penis. Most of the chocolate was gone now, and she was down to the beautiful white skin underneath, warmed by the chocolate and her probing, eager tongue—

_Am I the first, she wondered, to ever touch his cock? The first to ever kiss it, to lick and suck while fondling myself like a horny teenager, like an insatiable lust-drowned _animal_—_

Molly shoved her mouth down on his cock, taking it as deeply into her mouth as she could. It touched the back of her throat and she gagged and had to pull back, but being so full of him made her entire body pound like a war drum. He stirring again, trying to feebly move, but if he spoke she didn't hear it over her heartbeat.

She touched her tongue to the tip of his cock, relishing the little dip, then took the entire head into her mouth. She ran her tongue over the little ridge and sucked and sucked and sucked, pressing harder over her clit, rubbing her wet fingers over her hard nipples, sucking and rubbing and sucking and pressing and _sucking_—

She came with a cross between a yell and a shriek, harder than she ever had with just her fingers. She threw her head back like she had an audience, rubbing her nipples and furiously stroking her clit to extend her climax.

She sat there hunched over his cock for a few minutes afterward, enjoying the afterglow, then crawled up beside him, cranked up his morphine, and fell asleep.


	4. Decidedly Lovely

**Summary:**

Necessity is the mother of innovation.

* * *

Her fingers smelled like sex in the morning.

It was almost a sweet smell. She breathed it in for a few moments, setting her pussy tingling, and then went to wash up.

She folded Sherlock's blanket back as she gave him his morning medicine and checked his blood pressure so that she could get a better look at him. His cock was exactly as she had left it: thick and hard and as impossibly aroused. She kissed it and checked her watch.

It was only five a.m. Perfect time for slipping out to the drugstore.

If only she was allowed to go home while on-call. If only drugstores sold vibrators….

_As if you'd be bold enough to buy one, even if she they did!_ she thought as she pulled a tube of toothpaste off the shelf. Sometimes she wondered what she'd do if sex toys weren't sold online. She had been longing to go to a sex shop ever since she was old enough to know what it was, but she knew she would never have the guts.

Toothbrushes. Soft-bristle, microbacterial, with a no-slip grip.

And then something caught her eye. _Sale!_ the little yellow tag on the shelf read. An electric toothbrush, for only £3.

They even came in pink, her favorite color.

She had seen electric toothbrushes mentioned once before in a very unexpected way, but she had never actually tried it, having many other little…call them professional friends at home.

But she couldn't go home to fetch them. Surely this was the next best thing.

She slipped it into her basket along with a regular toothbrush and headed for the battery aisle, where she picked out the best batteries she could find.

_I_ _wonder if people know why I'm buying them?_ she thought self-consciously as she waited in line. _The women, at the very least. Why is that thought so arousing? Maybe I should have bought the batteries separately. Or used the self-checkout._ But John was right on his blog; those things were possessed by the same demons that haunted copiers and fax machines: definitely worse than slow, surely cashiers…

John. How was he taking things? He and Sherlock were so close. Surely he was devastated…

Molly itched to call him—text him, at the very least—but she had given her word to Mycroft. Given the little she knew about Moriarity and Sherlock's plan to fake his own death, she was certain that there was a good reason for keeping Sherlock's being alive a secret.

_Poor John._

She would bake him some cookies, she decided as the line inched forward. Only one register was open, and the line was long for it being so early in the morning. _Or rather, I'll buy some cookies for him. Those big chocolate chip ones from Levon's Bakery can pass as homemade._ Her previous attempts at baking had ended as disastrously as her attempts at knitting, only her entire apartment building didn't have to be evacuated when she skewered her finger.

At least she got two dates with a firefighter out of it.

She paid for her toiletries and headed back to the hospital, where a tissue sample was already waiting for her.

After that there were two bodies that needed slicing, and more tissue samples to retrieve from the freezer and analyze.

The freezer. She wished she didn't have to go near the freezer. The cold air made her nipples teasingly, tantalizingly hard…

Her lab assistant was there all afternoon, so she couldn't reach into her shirt. Instead she settled for holding patient files against her chest in a way that the edges would pleasurably rub her nipples. Too bad the material of her lab coat was so thick.

It was almost midnight by the time she finished the day's work and wearily made her way to the on-call room.

She had placed the batteries in the electric toothbrush during her brief lunch break, but she was too tired to use it. Maybe tomorrow night.

Molly took off her shirt and trousers, folded them nearly, and lay down in just her bra and knickers. The blankets brushed pleasurably against bare skin; she wished she had an oversized T-shirt or something. She was too tired to touch herself tonight…

Well, just her breasts, then. She often gently fondled her breasts as she fell asleep.

She touched them through the thin material of her bra for a few moments, feeling the first stirrings of arousal in her nethers.

_You're on duty all day tomorrow, and on-call all night and tomorrow night too,_ she reminded herself as pulled up her bra and let her fingers slowly slide up over the soft mounds of flesh to her nipples._ Get your sleep in while you can…_

But her fingers found her nipples anyway.

Molly much preferred touching them with wet fingers, but sometimes the rough friction of her dry fingers made her pussy throb harder.

Tonight was one of those nights.

_Oh, dammit_, she thought, sitting up. _Now look what you've done!_ She knew she wouldn't be able to get to sleep unless she came. She should have learned her lesson by now.

She grabbed the new pink toothbrush off the little night table between the beds and slipped it inside her panties.

She pressed the on button, and immediately sat up with a cry, jerking the toothbrush out of her panties.

It was way, way stronger than she had ever dreamed! That rotating bristle head was more powerful than any of her beloved vibrators. Comparing them to this slim, _magic_ pink wand was like comparing a horse and buggy to a locomotive.

She grinned to herself and lay back down and turned the toothbrush on again, pressing it to the outside of her panties to deaden the vibrations a little. There. That was a better.

She fondled her breasts again, licking her fingers and rubbing them over her hard nipples. She loved the feel of her own nipples, hard under her fingertips. She ran her flat palm over them, enjoying the hardness tickling her palms. She stretched her breast flat with her thumb and index finger and flicking at the nipple with her wet pointer, then switched sides and rubbed her left nipple till it stood up like Sherlock's cock and ran two fingertips over it, moaning at how lovely that felt.

And there was Sherlock, not five feet away, beautiful, fully-erect Sherlock—

Molly closed her eyes and thought of the taste, the feel of his cock on her tongue—

She hadn't been touching herself for more than a minute when she came, and came hard. Her muscles convulsed, back arching, and she cried out so loud in the darkness that she strained her throat.

_I sure hope nobody heard that,_ she thought when she was able to form coherent thoughts. _I would sure have a lot of explaining to do, mainly about how I was not in fact being murdered…_

She glanced across at Sherlock to see if she had woken him. No, his eyes were closed.

She placed the toothbrush on the night table and went to sit on the edge of his bed.

Although she had had once masturbated four times in one night, Molly was usually satisfied after coming once.

Usually, though, she didn't have a half-naked man with a giant erection laid out in front of her like a corpse on a slab—

_Bad analogy, Molly._

She moved the blanket off of him. His cock looked different now: veinier, redder, and hot to the touch.

She ran her hand down his chest. It was oddly toned and defined for someone who had Sherlock's job. Did he secretly go to the gym, Molly wondered? There wasn't an ounce of fat on him, which was marvelous. She abhorred soft flesh. Yes, he definitely snuck about behind John's back to the gym.

She pictured him naked in the gym's shower.

One of the handsome, long-haired, anonymous young men who populated her sex fantasies was there too, broad-shouldered and muscular.

_–What was the young man doing? Stroking himself. Stroking his penis—and what a penis!—a fitting match for Sherlock's. He walks up to Sherlock, his muscles shining and glistening in the water, steam curling up around their legs—_

Molly closed her eyes and squeezed her breast.

_—Sherlock is making one of his "observations" now about the beautiful young man—not a very flattering one, by the look on the young man's face—and the young man grabs Sherlock, forcing him to his knees—_

Suddenly her panties were on the floor, the toothbrush was on the bed beside her, and she, sweet, quiet Dr. Molly Hooper, was straddling Sherlock again, trembling like a fever patient.

"Don't," Sherlock mumbled.

_—and the man takes a handful of Sherlock's wet curls ands shoves his big thick cock in his mouth. Sherlock's beautiful mouth, with that beautiful deep, condescending voice—all punished and filled up by that hot throbbing cock—_

Molly bent down and kissed the tip of Sherlock's penis, and he moaned. Not exactly a moan of pleasure, but it was such a rich, deep sound that Molly groaned aloud, giving up any semblance of a fight, and thrust herself down on his cock like she had done a thousand times in her dreams.

His thick, glorious cock.

She liked being full, even enjoyed the slight pain she felt when shoving Oscar inside her, and her recent orgasm had left her slick and loose inside. Even so, Sherlock's girth stretched her to the limit, filling her like nothing before ever had.

She found herself laughing herself from the sheer thrill of it, and began sliding herself up and down.

_—Sherlock moans, gagging on the cock, but the young man shoves himself deeper into Sherlock, forcing the cock all the way down Sherlock's long white throat._

Sometimes she felt like the only time she was really awake, really alive was when she had something inside her, had something touching her clit. The only time she was truly happy or fulfilled. It was crazy, she knew that; but as she rode Sherlock and rubbed her clit she couldn't recall ever having felt better.

She felt free, somehow, free and_ opened up_ inside and released from her daily little worries and insecurities—

Molly moved herself up and down in time to her fantasy._ The young man thrusts in and out of Sherlock's mouth now, and she is watching from a window, watching the man cum in Sherlock's mouth, watching Sherlock being forced to swallow the cum—_

She started stroking her nipples. They weren't quite as sensitive as they were usually, a little worn out from her solo session, so she rubbed them hard with the sides of her wet fingers, scraping them occasionally with her fingernails to tear every spark of sensation she could from them.

__—_Sherlock is on his hands and knees now, the young man behind him with his impossibly huge penis standing out stiffly in front of him. With one clean thrust the young man buries it up to the base between Sherlock's tight wet buttocks—_

Sherlock's cock was hot inside her, so gloriously hot, so much hotter than Oscar ever was. Slick and hot and stretching and filling her deep, deep inside—

_—Sherlock cries out, begging the man to stop, but his own cock is standing up like a miniature Big Ben. The man thrusts brutally into Sherlock, harder and harder so that Molly could almost feel him inside her own rear. She hears the slap of his balls on Sherlock's'skin through the hiss of the showers, and the sound Sherlock's moans echoing her own—_

She turned her toothbrush on and touched it to her bare clit.

_—Sherlock is touching his penis now, stroking its shaft and fingering the head. The handsome young man is still thrusting into him, faster and faster and faster as he approaches orgasm, hard and fast and _deep_, and then Sherlock throws his head back and—_

An orgasm was building in her groin with all the force of a tsunami when she heard someone in the lab.

But it was too late to stop. Not that she _wanted_ to stop. She kept rutting herself atop the half-conscious Sherlock, engorged red pussy clenching over his penis, toothbrush buzzing, breasts bouncing, moaning to herself and sobbing slightly.

_—Sherlock cums hard, splattering white all over the steaming shower tiles. He collapses to the floor as the man came, gasping at the feel of the man's cum inside him—_

"Dr. Hooper?" someone called from inside the lab.

"Just a minute!" she yelled through the door, her yell sending vibrations through her, and suddenly she was coming too, gasping and crying out soundlessly. She grasped her breast desperately and curled up over the cock, focusing her silent scream's energy inward, wave after wave of pleasure rushing through her and squeezing Sherlock's cock inside her.

She didn't even care if whoever that was heard the toothbrush. She didn't care if she was caught. All she wanted was the feel that pure red climax roaring, gushing, pounding through her like a tidal wave—

It seemed like an eternity before her orgasm faded. She kept the toothbrush on her clit for a few more moments, whimpering silently at the little aftershocks, then scrambled into her clothes and rushed out of the room.

"Sorry!" she said breathlessly. "I was just brushing my teeth and getting ready for a quick nap."

"Tonight's guest died on the operating table, suspected medical malpractice," said the doctor, gesturing at the gurney.

"Sounds like an interesting one," Molly said, fanning herself. She knew she how she looked. Best draw attention to it herself, to look less guilty. "It's hot in here, isn't it? If I've asked them to fix the air conditioning in here once, I've asked them a thousand times."

The doctor looked at her. Her face and neck and ears were pink—odd, to say the least—and her there was a certain sparkle in her eye—

Happy, that's the word. He didn't often see Dr. Hooper happy. Sounded it, too. Well, if anyone deserved a little happiness, she did.

Still...It was decidedly odd.

"I'll leave you to things, then," he said, a bit doubtfully, and they signed the release forms and he left.

Molly was blushing, but she couldn't help but giggle as well as she tugged her gloves on.

After all, Sherlock was there for one more night.


End file.
